


Tomorrow, Tomorrow

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Porn with Feelings, Romantic Fluff, Spooning, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, but soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 07:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Connor wants and he wants in an endless loop ofred, red, red.Tomorrow, he tells himself.Tomorrow, I will talk to Hank.And when the sun rises and Hank shuffles in bleary-eyed and on the hunt for coffee, Connor—Hesitates. And wants.__This was a thread on Twitter. I received a request to post it to AO3 <3





	Tomorrow, Tomorrow

There’s a handprint on Connor’s face that he’s mapped to the smallest groove—every detail meticulously accounted for and sealed in picture-perfect memory.

Hank had palmed his cheek. It was a friendly gesture, no further meaning to tease out of the touch.

_Good luck._

Hank had bid him farewell with anxious eyes and a fragile hope on his tongue.

Connor could taste the words; feel them like a purr around his throat.

They carried him to Jericho. Hank’s touch ferried him to the tower. Cole, frozen as much in time and memory as he is in the ground, saved him.

He can still feel Hank’s fingertips at his hairline, his thumb on the sharp ridge of his cheek.

He wants to touch him back.

He wants to catalog the texture of Hank’s beard. He wants to know if Hank’s mouth is as soft as it looks and how it would feel pressed to his own.

Connor wants and he wants in an endless loop of **_red, red, red_**.

_Tomorrow_, he tells himself. _Tomorrow, I will talk to Hank_.

And when the sun rises and Hank shuffles in bleary-eyed and on the hunt for coffee, Connor—

Hesitates. And wants.

>>I am afraid

The paralysis of the unknown is infuriating and by the time he’s cooled his core, the moment is gone.

Hank is back in his room, dressing for work. Connor constructs an image, guessing which button Hank chooses first, slowly obscuring wiry grey hairs with each slip of a button through a pick-stitched hole. Connor wishes he was that button. To feel Hank’s fingers engulf him and manhandle him to exactly where Hank wants him. To feel fragile but important. To allow himself to be weak and to be held.

Connor can’t be a button. He can only be Connor and jealousy over such a simple object is absurd.

He doesn’t remember making the decision. He does remember opening the door. Hank’s eyes, round and hesitant and painfully, beautifully blue. He remembers explaining himself badly. He remembers heat boiling up his chassis to consume his face. _Embarrassment_, he realizes later.

He remembers Hank’s fingers on his lips to silence him—new fingerprints to memorize, new oils and ridges to store away for daydreams.

Connor has wanted for so long, the absence of it is almost disturbing. But new feelings take its place in due time. Desire, so similar, but tinged with lavender around the edges. Arousal, even stronger, but it burns a violent crimson up his walls.

If he wanted to, Connor could outline his skin in every new touch, every marking of Hank in the form of fingerprints and sweat from his skin.

A piece of his elbow would be blank and the spots behind his ears closest to the crease. Otherwise, there isn’t much of him Hank’s fingers haven’t touched. Even his tongue has hidden mementos of Hank’s fingers and the heavier weight of his arousal down Connor’s throat.

When he closes his eyes, he can see every part of Hank he’s touched in return. Hank’s beard is not soft, but it’s not scratchy either. It’s rough but well kept. His lips are more silken than Connor had guessed and they feel wonderful pressed to his own. They feel incredible when brushed down his neck and across his clavicle.

The first time Hank’s lips had dipped between his thighs to swallow his length in whole could only be described as exquisite.

Connor doubts his cataloging of Hank will ever be complete.

He smiles, shifts his attention from memories of his stumbling start to the man beside him now, still wrapped in sleep and blankets and Connor’s arms. He gives him a perfectly measured squeeze and Hank groans his irritation at the early hour.

“Good morning Lieutenant,” Connor purrs the words and grins at the flush creeping up Hank’s neck. He complains anytime Connor calls him by his rank in bed, but his half-interested morning wood always swells into full attention at the implication and tone.

Every touch, every sigh, meant just for him. Connor could lay between Hank’s thighs for hours, riding the crest of Hank’s release before reining it back in. Hank had let Connor work him over for hours one sleepy Sunday morning. Connor remembers the hardness against his tongue.

Hank had cried when Connor finally let him come.

New touches, new experiences fill his days and memory banks. It takes him six months to recognize he’s in love.

Hank smiles, soft and warm, the first time Connor says it, “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

Connor’s body burns with Hank’s touch, and his murmured, “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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